Sins of the Angels (41 page)

“Something we have in common.”

“Your job—”

“Is waiting for me when I'm ready to go back.”

“Will you?”

“I don't know. I don't have anything else to do, so I suppose I should. It just seems somewhat pointless with everything else that's going on.”

“Everything—you mean what's happening between Heaven and Hell?”

“The thought had occurred to me, yes.” She cast a dark look over her shoulder at him. “Do we mortals even stand a chance of survival?”

A smile tugged at the corner of Seth's mouth. “I don't think you have to worry about extinction just yet.”

“With the emphasis on
yet
?”

“With the emphasis on not worrying.”

“Not worry about a potential war between Heaven and Hell. You're kidding, right?” Alex glared at him. “Is there some part of being mortal that you're unclear on? We die, Seth. Bad things happen and we
die
.”

“I know, but I still think you're worrying too much.”

Alex carefully and deliberately set aside the tangle of pain sitting in her chest and took a mental step back to examine Seth's words. She fixed him with a hard stare.

“You're not telling me something.”

Seth remained silent for a long moment, looking past her and visibly grappling with something inside himself. Alex crossed her arms, fixed him with an unwavering stare, and waited.

“There's a contingency plan,” he allowed at last.

“A contingency plan.”

“Another way to avoid war and decide who will have dominion over the mortal realm.”

“I see. And this plan would be—?”

Seth stared down at the carpet at his feet. Dug his hands deeper into his pockets. Then raised resigned eyes to hers. “Me,” he said. “I'm the plan.”

War.

Aramael sat on the hard, sun-baked earth long after the last he would see of his kind had abandoned him in a silent rush of wings.

Heaven and Hell locked in the final, ultimate battle that would decimate the mortal race.

And he could do no more than watch from the sidelines. He stared out at the barren landscape. Knowing what was coming, knowing who stood behind it, he could do nothing to prevent it. Couldn't warn anyone, couldn't stop it, couldn't even take part.

Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades. The sun, at its zenith in a cloudless sky, beat down without mercy.

The Archangels had picked their dumping ground with stunning appropriateness. He would die a dozen deaths by the time he walked out of this hell. Die, and because of the immortality he retained, be resurrected into the same hell, over and over again. A hell where Mittron had won a battle Aramael hadn't even known they waged until it was too late.

Wiping his forehead with his shirtsleeve, he thought about the woman he'd known as soulmate for so brief a time and wondered what she would do when the war came. Would she be able to remain as strong as he remembered her? A few humans would undoubtedly survive. Would she be among them?

Perhaps it would have been better if she hadn't fought so hard to stay alive through her encounter with Caim. If she'd died then, she wouldn't have to face what the rest of humanity would endure. Aramael's stomach clenched at the thought, bringing him up short. That almost felt as if he still cared . . .

Impossible. He'd never forget how his awareness of Alex had faltered and then faded into nothingness. Until emptiness was all that remained in him. All he knew.

He frowned. Except it wasn't all he knew. Because he still knew her, still knew exactly what he'd lost. Surprise made him grunt softly. He closed his eyes, pushed past the loss that sat heavy in his heart, and dredged up everything he could remember about Alexandra Jarvis. Stubborn courage further defined by vulnerability, hidden wells of compassion and strength, skin like silk beneath his fingers when at last he'd given in to the need . . .

His eyes shot open and he stared at his hand, feeling the imprint of her skin on his flesh. He dusted his fingertips together and the tingle from them flowed into his arm. He still had the memories. Clear memories. Vivid ones. What the hell—?

The thought slithered through his mind so quietly he almost missed it. Almost ignored it. Then he seized on it. He could remember because he wanted to, because no one had directed him not to, and even if they had, he could refuse the order. Because he had free will.

Possibilities jangled in his brain, clamoring for his attention. Aramael raised his face to the sky and felt the sun burn against his skin. His mind slowed, settled, sharpened.

Alex, he thought. He could return to Alex. If he remembered her this clearly because he chose to, what more would he feel if he found her again? If he deliberately tried to reignite what he had felt for her? The ache of loss in his center deepened at the idea.

Then he remembered Mittron and his jaw went tight. He might not be able to out the Highest Seraph the way he'd like, but maybe he didn't need to completely discount himself just yet. Maybe he could still do something to stop the Highest—or at least slow him down until someone else clued in.

Alex or Mittron. What a hell of a choice.

Aramael raked his hands through his hair and winced at the scrape of fingernails against his sunburned scalp. If he stayed here much longer, he would die his first death on the spot. He stood and dusted himself off, and then made a full revolution where he stood, squinting against the desert's glare. He grimaced.
Bloody Hell.

In every direction, the land stretched as far as he could see, lifeless and littered with dried bits of scrub. He pushed away the memory of previous, easier travels, chose a direction, and began walking. At least he'd have time to decide where his priorities lay. And maybe—

He stumbled over a stone and stopped in his tracks. Wait. Maybe he didn't need to choose. He grappled with his thoughts, forcing himself to recall those agonizing last moments in Mittron's presence. What was it the Highest had whispered, just as he had ripped Aramael's wings from him?

Aramael stared ahead into the vast emptiness, remembering how his purpose had once filled him, had defined his existence. Remembering how the power of Heaven itself had channeled through him and how his feeling for a mortal woman had taken all of that and magnified it and given the control of it to him. Power now lost to him, unless he could find a way to reconnect to it. Find someone who might be able to provide that connection.

Unpredictability beyond the expected.

Mittron sure as hell wouldn't expect that.